Rage
by Novoux
Summary: It hurts. Everything hurts for a bakemono of Ikebukuro. And fear is the best way to train an unruly mutt. Trigger warning for sexual abuse and humiliation.


_Odoma iya iya,  
Naku ko no mori nya._

Wake up. Remember that this isn't a dream and this is here and now. Cold, on the floor frozen solid sleeping in half wide awake wonder and the horror is still gripping. Gripping like the sweaty palms—cold clammy sweat, blood trickling gone stiff and cold—nails biting into his skin that's iron melting into plastic. Blood, he tastes the metal of every last coherent thought sliding down his throat and watches it ooze on the floor. It's his blood, and some of someone else's, maybe. One hit, two hits—down he goes. On the walls, on the floor, in his hair, staining his nose when his head's pushed down into the sweat and blood. The worst part is his heart's pounding everywhere without the touch of fingers gripping his hips to keep him down. His hands are free to clench and gasp (is that his mouth? His teeth are aching and his jaw twitches every once in a while) empty air with slick sounds slipping through and they clog his ears when they catch; viscous in oxygen depriving his lungs.

Humming, the same thing over and over again. In his ears, rattle his brain and click his teeth together when he's muzzled like the _dog you are, aren't you_. Laugh when he snarls, slapping each other on the back because the attack dog is a bitch, on the floor and taking a beating from the one to claim. Cowering like a mutt, because his tail's tucked and he can't hide any further beneath his own skin when it's laid claim to. Come on, wake up now. Don't sleep now when the fun's already in and pulsing beneath the smell he'll never scrub out beneath his fingernails. In, out, _in—breathe, don't forget to breathe—_tighten, clench, release. It's the only way to gulp down in handfuls the drops of sweat slicking down the ridge of his nose trace like regret. Maybe it doesn't make sense anymore, or maybe it doesn't need to (just feel and keep feeling, ha, ha, ha) make sense. The worse it can do is remind him that this is going to happen when it already is and there's nothing to do but clench hands when his jaw's nearly clear through his tongue. His teeth cut like steel and his mouth fills with iron.

The words make sense when he throbs, feeling it from the bottom up and echoing after his own heartbeat. Soft grunts from his nose, whistling along unwittingly in the strange situation of not remembering where this is. But like the rest, nothing seems to matter anymore. Traditionally, blood pours from the back of his head and he lands the first punches until bones break and he hates himself even more. Tradition is not the concrete floor beneath and darkness above without a star—blinked from existence and when he breathes, he feels himself die a little more. If only he can, reaching this far to never look back and realize before it hits. His muscles clench—_ha, ha, ha—_what's funny isn't appealing to him anymore. He doesn't want to play this game of hit and fall even though this is what he plays when they come first with fists shaking. Not flying knives like the shitty flea or retaining at least a shred of dignity when he moves. Grunting past the gag over his mouth when he starts to bleed. Again.

_Ugh_. Pain is easy to remember as it's big enough to catch in his fingers. Some of it slips through and he forgets like he forgets to breathe and grunt and try not to make a noise. Thinking it'll stop if he's quiet, resorting to childhood logic of being afraid of himself and maybe this is what monsters get. Pain (again, stop that) clenches in between the only defense of running and stumbling when he realizes it's too late. Not crying while it's too late for that and no words are going to describe the cold _slip, slip, _of blood, saliva, sweat, and shame. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the same song is humming quietly with the pacing of seconds of each slip in and out that beckons more blood to come leaking out. He's tearing open at this point, dry and raw and aching for release and screaming is lying on the back of his tongue if he's not lying to himself. It's got to be okay if he deserves this going this far. Seconds pass like centuries before they fall and dig into the concrete of a warehouse on Tokyo Bay when smothered in blood. Silent screaming might be the reason they fall when it's deafening in his own ears.

Repeat, repeat, repeat. Not the drugs talking—they're certainly chatty at this time, why _now _he isn't sure—but they probably are. The way the buzzing in his blood down to the last centimeters of bones under his fingertips isn't him. He's shaking and trembling when he's not restricted and somehow when he's free to go, he can't get up. It's pathetic. Ridiculous, humiliating, and shame. Up, up, now. Get up, monster. Wake up already so seeing ugly brown eyes that are shocked red and rattling in their sockets isn't hard when turning on a spit roast like a pig. He's dirty just like one, too. Bloody, smelly, and disgusting when covered in his own filth of blood but the shame digs deeper than blood. Thicker than water, but blood isn't the main reason he's shivering when he's burning up. Thick as in being roasted alive by impalement and blood spills out as a natural shrug when his body gives up and his brain is on recording mode. To remember and carve into fatty tissue what it means to give up and curl in on himself.

He's not innocent. Far from, and dirty with hands that have surprisingly never killed, to his knowledge. Innocence is not monster strength and large hands with endless tendrils of cold and sweat buzzing beneath blood that boils when he's angry. It's the last choking noise that comes up out of his throat in a startling accusation against himself—it's hard to hold on much longer. Here he is, drowning in blood and questioning why this is happening again. Where doesn't really matter, because he can still be in a luxurious hotel and children can still break toys shaped like monsters. Children know the songs they're singing in the hushed background, waiting to go next for their next round of who is it now to play. Voices in tandem, hushed and thrumming like singing a child to sleep. In a way, he might be one with childish temper tantrums that break cities and hearts and any reason to look longer than a fleeting glance. Off the top of his head, one red-eyed glare sticks out and for some reason, the joke is that it's not on his mind right now. A blessing and a curse, if he has faith in rising above the floor of concrete and where his mind is dying ever-so-slowly in the palms of greedy hands. They're children, too.

It's dead inside. Hearing the broken grunts not from him but mixing with silent moans as he drools in a growing pool of silent blood. The odd way they mix and the sound permeates the air, others watching he can remember but not the important simple things. Not his name, which is easy because it's supposed to be what he's not and this is probably the way vengeance is served on a cold concrete platter that's too much to swallow down. Slowly, slowly, he's coming into consciousness of where and what he is. Too much to remember yet, but recalls the pills after cloths and soaked anger out of the blue of watching the sky. Right now it's probably sunset, but it could be day or night at this point when nothing seems to matter any longer. Can't keep counting, or he'll lose the rest of his mind as it bleeds out on the floor. White, too, because they keep his eyes open with tape and the dry air burns if he dares to think of blinking. There are fingers which are empty like his palms—so he starts with that, counting that instead of the moans and drawn-out echoes on the walls. The smell is getting to him like the pulsing throbbing down to the core of what it means to be shielded around the walls of a monster.

_"Not a monster anymore, are you?"_ the pain taunts, thrusting harder into him when he thinks he can't take any more and like it expects the answer, it buries deeper inside. Slowly it's carving him apart and into pieces so he can't stand up for himself when they're done. If they ever finish. _"Look at you—broken and sniveling like a coward. You're pathetic when you're all bark and no bite."_ it continues, not hearing the quiet groan that scratches his throat raw. He's not a person anymore. Not a monster or human or not himself. Just there, watching on his stomach while he bleeds._ "But you see this?"_ Hands tug at his hair, pulling him up to thrust harder and an arm sinks into view. Off the ground his nose drips faster with blood and the salty taste of remembering what it feels like to be humiliated. But he stares, unable to look away and if he does, he knows there will only be more for him. (At this point it shouldn't matter, right?) _"You did this, you little bitch."_ At the mention of what he's been reduced to, harder and faster the throbs echo and his heart skips a little faster. Any more, he thinks, and it'll break his ribs if they're not already.

He did do this. Eyes shuffling to the long gash crusted with dried blood and dirt, he sees what he's caused. The damage, the breaking stop signs and never getting the warning clear—_stop, stop, stop—_until it's far past the point of hearing and more toward being utterly useless. Helpless is another story he can't read into. He's never been good at that—admitting that it's wrong (_he's_ wrong, too) and he can see the light filtering in from another room but it's dark and cold. Light is the one thing he shies away from, knowing the false source as only another delusion in a drugged myth of lies and disbelief. Far from that, however, as he's coming to recall there is no hope of retaining a shred of himself against the floor and not moving. Against the thrusts, sliding in and out (back and forth, rocking like a baby and hush, don't speak) more notes of the same song in his ears. They coo—one voice looming over in particular, standing out above two others as they hum and the words are in his ear with heavy breaths and heart stilling in his chest.

_"What's this?" _That's not part of the song. It is part of feeling warmth and feverish chills down his cheeks. Is he—? No, it can't be; that's not right to do and here is this laughing in his head, shaking and rattling against his ears but if he shakes his head, the noise grows while the hand on his head tightens in his hair. _"Look at this, do you see what I'm seeing, monster?"_ No, he doesn't. He doesn't see much of anything because his eyes are blurring and all of this is too confusing to process. What a tragedy: a monster in the midst of breaking down to the final cracking of a human shell. Trapped, it seems, as he always has been in the monster of a man. Not human because humans don't give in so weakly and they don't hurt like monsters tear apart flesh and bones. With their teeth (the voice bites his shoulder, never leaving much of a mark but it still stings) they pull apart and sink in until the blood runs out and onto the floor. Slippery when wet, but thick with metal and salt. Saltwater on cracked lips, bleeding like an open wound from two eyes that don't shut quite right when he strains delicate skin against tape. It doesn't make any sense, really. Then again, it may never be more than just a drugged delusion of cat and mouse, but this time he loses. Every time.

"_Look at this!" _Voices join in, cackling when his head is forced up and no more hushing murmurs of a child's lullaby in his breaking ears. At one point they are full of knives, but they've been bleeding ever since and he doesn't know if he can hear or it's his brain filling in the gaps. Useless, so useless. _"Look at the bakemono cry! How pathetic!" _Bakemono of Ikebukuro and crying—it's pathetic, weak, stupid, unreal (unfathomable, untouchable, undone) down the drain where blood and white collect where the floor is neverending.

"_Broken monster, ain't he?" _Another calls, sending shivers of defeat and ache down his spine when he's feeling the words in his skull. Teeth clicking, his head is forced back into the pool of blood and his eyes splash with more metallic red. It keeps growing, the puddles on the floor into one big ocean to stare back at him with murky expressions and expectations clotting together of how to keep going. When giving up—he doesn't quit, calls on drugs to admit that he can't move except for the slow grasp and release of his hands. They remind him that he's still there when it's too much to remember what's happening. What has happened and what _is _happening seem no different to the sluggish eye and wet tears of flesh rip down his cheeks in hot trails to gather at his chin and fall. Slip, slip; into the puddle below.

Thrust in—white-hot agony slips between the blood and cracks rising to his fingernails. His fingers are black and blue from hammers smashing until he stops grasping and just holds on—Thrust out, rush of blood and fluids from clear to white and they taste like salt not running down his face. He's coming to accept that this is what's on his face and clearing off blood in tiny little trails. They watch him cry when there isn't enough to keep his eyes moist until they rot out of his head which surprisingly, they haven't yet. Gentle and rough mixing in a shrewd gasping of _it hurts, stop, _again and again until his voice is nothing left of drugs burning his veins and cauterizing the passageways of feeling. Tears remind him of failure to keep the refrigerator down on the ground where it belongs firmly planted. Not the shop lady's breaking body on the ground in a spat too far or the indestructible side of danger and red eyes blinking back warning signs. He wishes, right now as he fades away into nothing more, nothing less, to be like that. Never give in or give up or be destructible enough to wash away with blood on the shore in the aftermath of a tsunami drizzling in and slit holes to bleed out and sting with salt. Thrust in to blinding whiteness and a stiff cry daunting at his lips—they laugh, so he's obviously crying out—thrust out to a slurping noise that tingles at the base of his bruising spine.

_Naku to iwarete uramareru,  
Naku to iwarete uramareru._

Tighten (insides, hands, ears, and whatever he can feel to his toes underneath kneecaps) and coil in further to distract himself. Spearing him apart means the telltale sign of groaning moans becoming louder and earth-shattering in experience that this isn't the first time. It's the third one of the time he's here and maybe in total the tenth time this has happened. He knows to expect release for a total of three seconds—if he looks down when his head is pulled up, he feels shame—and not for himself. Not that he wants to see more white leaking down his thighs and shaking because it hurts and he himself is...too much to think about. His brain hurts. Everything hurts and aches and throbs the way it's not supposed to after throwing things around. The last time he feels the same ache is too long ago to remember, but it involves vending machines and disappointment—that's it; that's what he's trying to remember off the tip of his almost-severed tongue. By his own teeth, no less.

_Hah, _thrust and slap against skin, hair scratching and grabbing skin when it leaves the cold sting behind. _Ah, _it doesn't feel good like it's supposed to and maybe it shouldn't for a monster hanging like a bitch. He can feel the sleepy sluggishness and the effects wearing off of staying awake too long as his body mends itself for another round of bruising hands and breaking past the barriers of a mind. He's not human anymore and if he has the chance, it's gone now. Soaking in the blood on the floor and it's never coming back. _Hah, _here it comes, waiting anticipating this game of end and maybe there are tears down his cheeks as he's tired and enough to not care anymore or hold them back. It hurts, let go let go let go (_please_)he can't ask nicely because there's a shred of pride intact and no matter what, he's still a monster that won't and can't forget the smallest unimportant details. Until he breaks, that is. He wonders, numbly, if that means they'll kill him them. It's a kinder alternative to the original circumstances.

So the voice is murmuring in his ear, when he hears the next words again. "_They hate me for keeping the child to cry," _in the tiniest bit of not drug-addled part of him, it's irony at its finest and too hilarious to laugh so the bitter sarcasm slips down his face a little faster than before. Not like anyone's noticing, when the humming is in his ear again and it's the only thing he really knows at this point after the gag is ripped from his mouth. It falls to the floor with a wet plop, enunciating how far the game has gone. The room is alive and buzzing like the tingling beneath his skin that's slowly driving him numb and or insane which sounds the same if put in the context of pain, which it is. Footsteps slither over—monsters, he knows the sound—and head lifting off the ground by another hand in his hair while his body jars forward with another flick. Slip, slip, and his head slams against bloody concrete and he lets out a weak cry.

Up again, inch or two above the ground where his nose cracks from before and blood gushes out with the rapid beating of his heart threatening with creaking groans against his bruising ribs. This time before he can let the ice trickle from his eyes his head slams down and skin slaps against his thighs. A hiss escapes him, not unlike a beast, and blood gushes with the swelling of black dots in his eyes. It's too much to bear anymore. (_Please, please, enough is too much._) Again one more time he rises from the ground, splashed in blood and white sticky fluid that leaks from his legs in and out with more gasps of nearing the edge of his sanity. For pleasure and fun and work combined into one, there's no other way to go about this when it involves monsters and drugs. But it works, so it's enough—more than enough and typical of slamming his head back down to rattle his brain in his skull. He doesn't feel well at all and it's getting too hard to see the fingers ripping down pants and hard flesh against his mouth when he rises again.

"_Bite, and I'll break your teeth, bitch." _Before he can his lips part for him and salty bitter and reminiscent of warmth from being inside of him mixed with blood from earlier injuries fights with the blood filling his mouth. Slick in, thrust out with snaps of hips and the omnipresent feeling of being alive with death. In and out, bouncing against each other from his hips to his mouth and he gags on spit trailing onto the floor filling with blood and quickly. Eyes darken and he doesn't look anymore. He can't see, so he doesn't. They don't know and they don't need to. Pushing back and forth, sawing him down to his bones so they can reach inside and pull out every organ that's moving and slapping against walls of bruising muscle when they're all somehow still together and still working. A third set of hands grips his waist and eases in a knife between his ribs, pushing in with thrusts forcing further into the path of inside a monster and another labyrinth to follow. He's screaming, crying, and choking up feverishly when they push past the breaking point. No one listens because no one is there.

Hand on his erection—_oh why—_and gasping with hands on his throat, a pulsating warmth of flesh in his mouth threatening to choke him down if he bites—inky white blindness tears one last hoarse scream that echoes off the walls.

Laughter follows in its footsteps.

_Nenne shita ko no,_  
_Kawaii sa, muzo sa. _

Next time. Wake up, wake up. Cold on the floor, cold all over. Freezing concrete and no sunlight to rise but the flicker of lights mean wake-up calls and laughter when the snap snap of cellphone cameras catch the rise and fall of his chest. So he's alive, maybe. Blood stains his nose and crusts his eyes closed—no tape this time, which means he doesn't bite like a bitch—and the strength to will himself further awake is gone. More drugs pump in his blood, waning but still echoing with the shaky throb of his heart to shatter the hope of still being alive and here. Here is wherever pain is, if he can call agony that and laugh as bitterly as the humor is dark and rustic. It reeks of blood, which is to be expected in the breaking cracks of his nose. He's on his side, possibly, going by the throbbing ache on the side he's been stabbed in as his weight rests on it. Blood pools, oozing slowly still and he feels too dizzy to move. A harsh bark of words and laughter, conversing as fluidly as the pulse of blood staining the floor from another room.

Disappointment means shuffling breaths that wheeze and sigh when he tries to breathe in regular amounts. He's stuck between hyperventilating and asphyxiation, so he chooses the pace of trying to keep up. In turn, it makes his heart beat too fast and the nausea starts to rise in his stomach—something strange is holding it down—iron in bile to keep it hanging in what he can only assume is guilt. Besides iron cutting through every open wound on him and down his tongue, it tastes like bitter and something salty. Not even the flea—why is he thinking of this _now?—_would eat something this disgusting. Swallow, more like it, but moving on means forgetting that it burns when it itches and scalds when he swallows. There's no gag in his mouth this time to catch the blood and it's lying on the floor he's guessing, going by the drip of blood from his mouth not hitting against more blood when it falls. Dark and itchy mean cold and damp at the rate he's waking up, still dazed and dreamy without the slightest room for dreams filled with nightmares to the brim of sanity. Day whatever this is and while he's not being spit roasted and split in two, the phantoms shush any doubt that the pain doesn't remain. Like a pig hanging to dry after a messy slaughter, but this time he's not screaming any longer with his voice long past silenced by his own animalistic cries. A monster (is what he is) is what he sounds like and after the men leave—one kick to the head and he slams against hard concrete before he's down—he doesn't scream any longer.

_"You can't play dead, bakemono."_ Click and the door opens: heavy and swinging like metal. Of course it would be to block out the screaming when they start the torture. It doesn't end—that's why it has to be metal. _"Wake up now, you're putting on a show today."_ It's unreal. Everything—anything he thinks about from his little brother (failing him now, what kind of shame does it take) to the laughing grin and two eyes that say _No _and mean it—is too hard to adjust to. Like the false light burning into his corneas past his eyelids it's not the way he wants to wake up. Or if he does want to wake up again. One sharp kick to his stomach rolls him onto his back and he coughs, sucking in air harshly when his lungs threaten to collapse from another blow. Eyes crawl open and blurry images suffice for what he can make out in the dark. Again; today is again.

Humming the same song, as if to lull him back to the sleep that won't catch. Knees bend down to his height, never steeping in blood and semen that's stale and cold but a hand catches the front of his ripped uniform. His brother will never forgive the things he's done. And that's okay—maybe, if he doesn't think about it—because there's nothing to forgive for a monster. One verse after another, haunting his shattering eardrums where everything is underwater as the sound distorts. Today is worse than yesterday, judging by how distorted the voice is and how little he can hear the other sounds of laughter or clicking. What is that?

_"Bakemono, it's time to play." _Voice says, taunting despite the fact he can't discern the difference of tone. It doesn't matter. Forget about it and move on, blink once in understanding or get kicked. _"Don't you think? Today is punishment." _It always is. Every day moving past the previous to forget the things he does and what he's done to come this far and fall. At the hands of captors—doesn't even know who they are, too drugged to be angry—he doesn't want to break (admitting that he already has, anyway) and fall apart now. So he opts to keep quiet, never making a noise past a shake of his head and the susurrus of his bloodstained hair slipping over the daring slices littering his throat. He's smart, but they don't realize how smart he is. This is a game, and he's playing for keeps.

Harsh laughter spits in his face, not bothering to wipe off the slimy trails and it feels like the grease staining his hair. Throughout his trickling thoughts are the fragments of _his _song, trilling and quiet in his own version. The voices can't sing to calm, but they do to taunt. He takes it a step further—above them, in his own way of smiling back with bloody teeth—singing to himself when the countdown starts. Hot breath on his face means going past with the first numbers, skipping down to pulling his shirt up and too incapacitated to move. It's only the small things of clenching and unclenching his fingers, feeling anger somewhere deep in wanting to murder this voice that clutches him and skids a knife over the bruises on his skin. He wants to become the monster and murder the voices until they can't touch or take whatever they please. But he doesn't.

Frustrating. So _fucking _frustrating when fingers pull at his penis and laugh when it reacts against his will. This isn't him and it never will be with drugs and aphrodisiacs as his world so far and this is humiliation at its best. A tug to the sensitive skin (which still is caked with dried blood, interesting) is too sharp and a soft whimper escapes, barely detectable but there's a laugh to know he's not alone. Again the fingers bob up and down, rising and laughter echoes harshly in his ears while the cold hits his penis and no, it's not a dick or a cock when it's at the center of humiliation. This is cold, calculated, and slow murder. No need for names or games when the truth is the only thing to face as days become nights.

_"Look at you, you little slut..." _it whispers against his skin, biting sharply at his sternum and a snap of a picture being taken rings in his ears. Ah, so this again. He doesn't hear what he can't choose to hear, so it's mandatory that he knows the insult slowly carving into his mind. More pulls and tugs, peeling the foreskin back and pinching—_ow ow ow ow—_he whimpers again, unable to ignore the throbbing that livens up from its dead state of dull throbbing. Echoing throughout his body he can feel the screaming his nerves give when his throat can't. _"A monster of Ikebukuro, and here he is, whimpering like a bitch. You're no dog at all, you coward." _He _is_ a coward. He's a coward for wanting to murder this voice and the fingers that pinch and pull at the skin of his penis or at his testicles, aching and flinching when they reach lower. Reaction expected, as always, by the voice and heavier breaths fall on him. He's bracing for this: for the end.

Broken fingers clench, straining little muscle remaining and he holds, two...three...four...and lets go. Gently they uncurl with the repeat of the first chorus of the song hushing the cries when an index finger and a middle finger push through the ring of muscles in his hole. They burn and sting and _it hurts _beyond belief when they go in dry. Anything short of torture is unacceptable in this room for nightmares and fitting only for a monster. But he isn't. He's not human and he's already accepted this when he realizes now he's not a monster. Monsters don't cry and they don't scream when it hurts. Monsters devour and steal the flesh from the bones of the hand inside of him, pulling at his prostate and never screaming like he does where the sound bounces off the walls. It hurts and he wants to _kill, kill, kill,_ and he can't. A monster in a cage, then?

He's still screaming as loudly and as much as his dry throat will let him. The urge to pee—of all times, why _now—_makes itself present and he abruptly stops, ending with a squeak which gains the voice's attention. Not a man nor a monster. Fingers curl inside and burn as they set fire to the abused flesh and tug at the fissures that have only closed up enough with scabs. Blood starts to curdle and leak with the slightest touch (pop and rip with the harsher tugs) to bring him back to reality. His pelvis is clenching, trying to will away the burn that's nearly trickling out of the head his penis grasped between two fingers with a clever _"oh?" _glancing curiously at what's going on now. It knows what it's doing, so the stopping of sound is more than suspicious—he can't bring himself, however—to make himself start screaming again. His teeth clench and grind nearly to breaking but he can't and he won't make another noise. It's not possible.

Blood leaks out and he can't stop the flinch that follows. Lazy teeth stained with tobacco and coffee open in a sleazy smile cheaper than the strip of bloodstained cloth beneath him. And then that cloth conveniently is stuffed in his mouth and he gags on the taste of dried blood and semen with stale saliva. His entire body shivers with the disgusting taste, completely horrified and disgusted beyond belief of what's left in remaining at the edge refusing to give in. It's tempting to forget and let go but he _can't _and no, this won't be what takes him down. Not now, not ever. No matter the consequences because death is the only thing that gets worse from here. Anger and guilt and disappointment well up and crash inside his brain when they rock his core with shuddering. He can't give up now. This is only the beginning.

He hisses at the third finger entering him through the cloth that slowly starts to taste even worse from reconnecting with the saliva in his mouth. Pelvic muscles clenching try to slow down the urge to use the bathroom (he _really _needs to not want to) and the attempt is too weak to stop. Drugs are still coursing through his veins to fuck up everything that he can control to dangle it in front of him as a tasty prize not soaked with blood. Something else, yes. Can't. No, no, no, _no._

_"Today I'll teach you a new verse, bakemono. Soon you'll know the whole song to sing to the children before you devour them," _the voice continues on as if not noticing he's not entirely there anymore and hasn't been in some time. "_Right?"_ It doesn't wait for the nod to rip its fingers out (he gasps for air like a fish in the sun) and chokes the scream that brings tears to his eyes. Blood starts to trickle and the metallic scent only gets more bitter with the passing of time if it exists in this place. Not a monster, he wants to say. The last thing he says before this occurs (oh, what a different time) is a flippant excuse of "Fuck you!" before he snarls and goes down quickly with rags pressed over his face.

One, two, push inside and he yelps angrily when he feels every single cut bringing him back to life with a silent scream that aches in his throat. The bulge of his throat bobs to swallow it back down when his ears can barely tell it's muffled and there's no use crying over spilled blood when laughter follows close behind. The real monster isn't him and it can't be him when he's bleeding like a human. Throbbing hardness rips him open and spreads him like a skin from a fresh kill, waiting to be turned into an accessory and hung like a fish before it's done. This game is life and short of living is death but the first doesn't sound like the best choice. Slapping noises of skin, pushing in and out and having the lack of decency to _laugh _at him while tears start to form in his eyes and he stares into the face above him. There is no human glancing back at him and smirking with eyes as black as the darkness around the edges of his eyes.

He feels the edge of a knife at his throat, pushing into skin like the monster inside of him that tears apart whatever it can catch and take. This is not lust or anger. Purely power and he knows this from the part of him that's still himself and still screaming to get _up _and fight back. All that's echoing in his head, knowing he's being recorded while he whimpers and gags on his own blood and everything else from a horror movie yet this one isn't ending. It doesn't end until he ends it—if he's a monster, then monsters can't die. Tables turning—he's thinking past and moving forward until he pushes at the limit of drugs—the slip, slip, of skin amongst the humming of the same children's lullaby. Cracked lips with multiple scabs mouth the words because this human is sick and cruel and pressing on his bladder (_fuck fuck fuck oh fuck no_) when he notices that it makes a favorable reaction come from him. If a sudden gasp and a fleeting look of surprise is favorable—of course it is. So hands press harder to coax and a tongue flicks out against the blood pooling where the knife is at.

"_You'll feel better, bakemono. Admit it," _it soothes carelessly as it catches and forces his eyes to look in the dark, _"you're nothing more than a human like the rest of us. Lower than a dog, you trash. So just..."_ the hand kneads the flesh painfully as it presses deeper and deeper and he's groaning against the cloth in his mouth to just _stop. _It doesn't get through like every other message. _"Let it go."_

No, no, no; he can't do this. Not now, not with the pain of kneading and the thrusting in and out and back and forth until he slowly picks apart his mind. Everything in a monster's body aches and his sanity is not the one of a monster's when it breaks as it means monsters don't have one to begin with. Can't be a monster, no. So why is this hurting so much and why does it never end? What means waking up and starting the same day of iron melting into plastic? Wasted dreams spent on sleepless moments where his eyes aren't taped open is one answer. If it is, then it's not a good excuse. Yet it hurts like everything else with the sharp burning that scorches a mark into his skin he's not sure will ever heal. It's in his brain, too, so that means he can't scratch it out when the time comes.

Rocking against him the pain is unbearable with nerves shouting out to the buzzing in his bones that this is agony, _"Come on, bakemono. Let it go; you'll feel better." _No he won't and with the knife pressing hard and fingers kneading the bruise over his bladder it's not fair he has to play this way. Not now not ever is it fair and since he's a monster, it must make it right to hurt. Warmth tingles down his spine—he can't, no, no, no—

"_Let it _go." it commands, none too gentle and the fingers press too hard to take it any longer. Knowing the shame but not facing it he can only do what the fingers command him to do. There's the sucking of air and sudden cold from the monster above in the starless darkness to pull out of him, probably covered in blood that isn't its own and kneel above. Wet warmth finally pulses from him, trickling down the sides of his half-hard penis gauging the trickling sense of his pride pulling itself to pieces. It doesn't feel like blood—nothing quite like it, bitterly mentioning—when he feels the sense of relief, horror, and shame. Not complete without the mirthful chuckling to ring harshly in his ears like warning bells of _danger, danger, danger_ with realizing that there's nothing more he can do when it's too _late._

Coming with the sensation of losing himself, he realizes that the drugs haven't been updated. Usually they're stuck in his mouth or forced over his face until he passes out again (or even, the ones that go...another direction) which means that yes, they should be wearing off by now. Up, up; get off and get away. His mind is still hazy but he can clench his broken fingers and try when it's all he has. Sinking this far (urinating on himself like a child, he's falling hard) it's the last resort before the final throes of death. The call is tempting and too much to ignore. He can move his fingers. He can fight until the last breath sprays blood on whoever dares to challenge.

And if he dies, he's not going to go down without a fight. Monster or human or whatever he is, he won't let this shame continue. He won't wake up when he hasn't slept and will never sleep until he dies, fitting for a monster. Slip, slip, sounds continue when the monster is above him and concrete is cold cut beneath his skin. There's no use without trying so he clenches his jaw and waits for death, mercy, or both. At this point they sound the same. Either will be taken or forced from the cold broken fingers grinding into the concrete floor even if he's ill and dizzy. He can't give in to this and it's taken too long already to come to dying this close when the drugs finally wear off—he can give or take—to end this befitting of the monster and human that he is.

"_What is it, bakemono?" _it curls in a lascivious coo, unaware of the danger of forgetting to re-inject a _bakemono _and not hold a knife to a wounded human's throat. So its dark eyes swallow the light, bending over and grinning like the monster it is and the monster beneath has fingers that curl and dance like flickers of the flame rising up. A hand grabs hold of his thigh, intending to restart the pain all over again and maybe move on to removing fingernails and toenails—it will never get the chance the moment the blade of the knife touches his throat.

It happens when a knife finds the nook of his throat, pressing gently like a kiss of promise and dirty like the lips staining his skin. Then it becomes hands coming up, seizing the voice of a monster's throat which is very real in his hands and a snarl tears loose, forcing the gag from his mouth with another hand. An overturn of power (two can play at this game) means crushing fingers despite the ache that settles in brokenly and tossing the monster aside like the garbage it is. Weakened tremendously by drugs, he is no ordinary monster. Before the other two can realize it's too late, he is up and shaking toward the door on weak knees when it breaks open. Knives pointing at him—one is a gun, aimed to fire but the fear of himself is racing through veins and plastic rebuilds into steel. Their legs pop pop like twigs and they fall, still alive to remember the same pain because death is not what humans have the right to give and take. Nor is it merciful enough for a monster. So, settling in between.

There is screaming in his ears and he falls again and again when he runs like a wounded deer. He runs, slipping oxygen that resists his lungs and bitterly tempting to suck in more air and collapse when he can't keep running. Muscles screaming and brain frying with drugs he keeps going when it's the only thing he knows now. Not his name, maybe not now and not for a while. It's not important to remember the screaming when it's his own that echoes in eardrums that can't discern the difference between fear and rabid anger. Neither seem to differentiate in that manner.

Slick, slick; he slips and falls when he can't run any more.

_Okite naku ko no tsura niku sa,_  
_Okite naku ko no tsura niku sa. _

Two eyes, red and curious with warning signs flashing come to slide toward him and he suddenly feels sick. Eyes toward the ground on the pavement slowly staining red.

This isn't happening.

"Shizu-chan?"

* * *

_Once upon a time, I tried to write horror. And then I realized I was horrible at it and quit for the longest time. Later on means disappearing for two weeks and then writing this whilst restraining myself to adhere to writing guidelines on here, which I probably broke._

_Usually I don't mention, but there will be a story based off of this. Most likely a multichapter, but Rage will be a oneshot and the story will be the "sequel".  
_

_Thank you for reading._


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